


Table Manners

by mikeginsanity (blahblahwahwah)



Category: Pitch (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Implied Sexual Content, POV Multiple, Sexual Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-11 02:04:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10452507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blahblahwahwah/pseuds/mikeginsanity
Summary: Mike looks uncomfortable.Rachel stops for a chat.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The first chapter is my attempt at writing clean porn.  
> Also a contribution for Sinning Sunday.  
> I miss Pitch.

Something’s not right with Mike.

He looks unwell.

The only reason that Rachel knew that her ex-husband was seated at the most exclusive table in the most exclusive restaurant in LA was because she’d spotted him arrive earlier.

She was having a social dinner with her friends from work at the same restaurant at a less glamorous table on the second story. She just happened to look over the railing when she saw an unmistakable face. Even if his beard didn’t give him away, there was something about his presence that left little to conjecture. There was the captain of the _Padres_ , her ex, being escorted by the Maître’D towards the mezzanine floor of the restaurant. 

And he was alone.

After making several trips up and down to sneak a peek under the pretext of going to the restroom, Rachel was convinced that he was still waiting on company.

Her last attempt to ‘go to the bathroom’ had her companions concerned for her health, so she decides to launch a head-on invasion. Bribing the Maître’D would be useless. If discretion and privacy was the USP for the restaurant’s management, prudence and tact were Rachel’s USP to execute the ambush.

 

The only reason she’s curious is out of professional interest (so Rachel reiterates to herself)

That particular table was dubbed as the ‘proposal’ table among the elite circles in LA for good reasons.

A solitary secluded booth on the mezzanine floor, constructed so that it was walled off from the rest of the restaurant providing high privacy to its occupants, yet surrounded by 270 degrees of tempered glass giving its patrons a stellar view of the Santa Monica pier. It was the most expensive table in the house, hardest to obtain reservations for, with the longest waitlist with a dedicated serving staff. 

But, ‘popping the question’ and serious romantic dates weren’t the table’s only intended use. Its unique status made it a favourite for clandestine conversations for the privileged, high level meetings for the one percenters, private celebrations for celebrities, and power dinners for leaders.

Whispers had long been running in her circuit that Mike was retiring. He was thirty-nine years old. Progressively being played in base positions while Livan Duarte was gradually being groomed to take his place as key catcher. As far as baseball careers were concerned, Mike had achieved the holy grail – twice. The _Padres_ had won two World Series under his leadership. The first win was historic, the second consecutive win was record shattering.

And Mike Lawson was a man in demand. 

Mike was tight-lipped and flippant when directly questioned about retirement. There was defensive chatter that he might stay on for one more season and attempt to win the third World Series in a row. Though there was some talk about him entering broadcasting, Rachel knew for sure Mike had no lasting interest in it.

The biggest, juiciest, and most credible speculation (the one that flagged all of Rachel’s internal scoop sensors) was the _Dodgers_ interest in offering him an assistant team manager position with the ulterior motive to help transition their new rookie catcher.

The final game of this year’s World Series had been like watching the climax of a blockbuster movie. Surreal. Ginny Baker threw the first successful no-hitter of her career. In those last nail-biting moments, it seemed like that final ball would have allowed their opponents the winning two runs, breaking her streak. But, between Mike in the catcher’s box and Sanders at the shortstop – they won the game 1-0, solidifying Ginny’s position in history, and paving the way for the _Dodgers_ to call up the second woman to the major leagues, who also happened to be the first female catcher in baseball history.  

Rachel was the first to sniff out the story on the woman being called up. If the _Dodgers_ are truly enticing Mike, she wants to be the first to get in on that tip as well.

That’s why she’s gatecrashing his evening, she tells herself.

She’s not doing this to indulge the concern she feels every time she spots that pained look in his face. If he’s here on personal business, she’ll leave him to it. If he’s here on a date, she’ll walk away. There’s no vested interest in his wellbeing any more than called for by virtue of civility, she tells herself.

(It was out of the blue - their breakup

To this day, Rachel never understood why.

Once the _Padres_ were out of the running for the Wild Card that season that Ginny got hurt fielding a bunt, it was Rachel who showed up at Mike’s doorstep at San Diego. He received her graciously, even moved to LA for the next two months. He was a different person; he had outgrown the cocky, charming boy she had married, into a mature, committed man. And, Rachel – who never truly stopped loving him – began to believe in another future together.

On Christmas eve that year, she returned home from work to find packed bags in the foyer and Mike pacing restlessly in their living room, waiting for her.

She was looking at a man but seeing agony, despair, and hopelessness personified.

He apologized profusely for fifteen minutes, told her she was right about him chasing after what he couldn’t have, begged her to forgive him for walking out on her and promised her he’d never bother her again.

This time, it was she that was left with the broken heart.

Even then, his anguish was so palpable, Rachel felt neither rage or resentment. She even tried for a futile reconnection with Evelyn Sanders in the hope of checking up on him. Rachel realized the person she’d been living with the past few months was a façade of contentment. This agitated, restless beast was the reality caged inside.

Seeing the gusto Mike fuelled into his team that season, she was infallibly convinced it was not another woman. As Rachel observed him from afar over the next two years, Mike seemingly reconciled to his aging body, became more resigned with the changes in playing structure.  

It was Baseball, Rachel deduced at the end of it.

Mike’s one true love.

Mike kept his promise.  They hadn’t spoken with each other thereafter for more than a few minutes and certainly never more than in a professional and dutiful capacity.

He seemed like a happy man. More importantly, Rachel believed he was at peace. 

 

So, she moved on. Somewhat.

If Baseball was Mike’s one true love, he was hers.)

 

Rachel walks towards the booth with confidence and haste. The restaurant is anal about the privacy of that booth, but it appears luck is in her favour because the Maître’D and the garçon are in deep discussion by the side of the service alcove. She tip-toes her way up the spiral steps that lead to the semi-circular booth wall when she hears a hoarse groan.

 _His_ groan.

She hastily rounds the frame of the circular wooden housing and finds Mike half spread-eagled in the centre of the booth, practically slipping down on the seat. He breathes, loud and deep, head thrown back, face flushed red, skin glistening with sweat, eyes screwed shut, his jaw slackened, one palm covering his forehead and the other one gripping the table so hard, the satin table cloth gathers under his fingers.

He looks ill. But, he’s also –

 _Smiling_?

How odd.

“Mike?” She blurts with concern.

He jumps up. The table rattles loudly. Cutlery and crockery clatter with it.  She hears a muffled squeak that she could have sworn didn’t - _couldn't_ have come from him. He slaps his palm on the table instantly with a loud gasp, looking at her with alarmed misty eyes.

“R-r-r-rachel?” He pants, shaking his head, blinking at her as though he doubts his vision.

“Hey!” She climbs the last step into the booth.

If she weren’t so worried about how close he seems to a heart attack, the spectacular view of the ocean and the illumined pier would have taken her breath away.

“Are you all right?” She asks.

He just sits there, motionless, staring at her with a confused, hangdog expression.

(He’d become indecipherable to her over the past couple of years. He was neither grumpy nor cheerful around her, just stoic and unemotional. He no longer smiled at her like she was his one and only. He no longer called her ‘Rach’. He was a man she no longer knew. A man she could no longer read.)

Rachel cannot believe that after all these years – he can still pull that hilarious frozen stance that manages to frustrate and amuse her at the same time.

It’s _still_ adorable.

“Er…” He clears his throat and running his tongue to wet his lips.

Rachel wonders if she’s imagining that there are more wrinkles on his forehead. His beard looks greyer than when she last saw him. There’s limited lighting inside the enclosure and Rachel wonders if that’s why Mike’s hazel eyes are half-dilated.

“Y-yeah.” He says, with a shaky voice.

He sits up, inches forward and starts spinning the plates around, clearing his throat loudly. He fiddles with the cutlery, dropping them over the plates noisily. Rachel notices that the table is set for two, but Mike is basically cluttering up the arrangement like he’s a bored toddler at a grownup dinner party.

“Mike, are you okay?” She asks again, gently.

He purses his mouth; moustache and beard meet.  He folds his elbows, drums his fingers over his forearms as though he’s trying to decide something. And suddenly a goofy smile breaks out, he glances at his lap, letting out an exasperated chuckle.

He looks up at her with a sheepish, awestruck expression that tugs at Rachel’s heart.

“Yeah!” He says.

“You look unwell.”

The redness is ebbs from his face and he scratches his beard frantically, straightening his expression.

“Yeah.” He repeats.

Rachel tilts her head.

“I – I mean I’m – I’m – I’m good.” He says, quickly.

“Are you sure?”

“Yyyep!” A not-so-reassuring smile makes its way across his face. His beard lifts with his cheeks.

“’Cause you look a little blown.” She points out.

Rachel could have sworn she heard a muffled giggle from somwhere, but she’s distracted by how quickly Mike’s face pales. His jaw drops without warning and he hitches his breath like he wants to gag.

Rachel steps forward and then freezes in her spot when Mike squeals.

_Squeals._

(Now, her ex-husband always had a rough, deep, baritone quality voice. For him to reach that level of shrillness is not only abnormal, it’s downright upsetting.)

His eyes slam shut so tight, Rachel worries his lashes will scratch his corneas. He curls both his massive hands into fists. One slams down on the table and the other one gets stuffed into his mouth. He lets out a guttural noise with teeth biting down hard on his knuckles chocking a growl.

Did she hear a stifled moan as well?

“Mr. Lawson, are you okay, sir -?” The garçon comes rushing in. He stops in his tracks when he sees Rachel.

She ignores him.

Mike laughs.

It’s not even a proper guffaw. It’s more air and noise. A sort of “Uh huh, huh, huh!”. He presses his mouth shut and another squeaky entreating noise escapes his throat.

“Mike!” Rachel steps closer.

“Yeah!” Mike stutters, his voice impeded by the fist in his mouth. “Y-Y-Yeah! Yes! I’m good. Sorry about that – I accidently hit my hand against the table. Didn’t mean to. I don’t think I broke anything.”

He doesn’t even open his eyes.

 _That was no accident._ She wants to say.

He exhales like the wave of whatever-it-was that hit him just passed. He opens his eyes and looks at the garcon.

His pupils are fully blown.

Rachel hears an inhale – that makes no sense because it doesn’t sound like Mike’s. Her job requires reading body language, so she’s got a keen set of perceptive skills. For one, Mike’s breathing was relatively steady and the sound was too sharp. For other she hears a low moan from somewhere else – and it is, for sure, _not_ Mike’s.

But, then Mike yelps suddenly, covers his eyes while the rest of his face distorts like spasm of pain is hitting him. “I – I – j-just need another – drink. Scotch. Make it a double,” tumbles out of his mouth.

Rachel looks at the full glass of scotch sitting pretty on the table.

“ _Eeyaaah_!” He yelps again. “Make that a triple! And – and…”

The garçon tosses confused glances between her and Mike but doesn’t move. Rachel goes towards the end of the booth, bending her knees to slide in.

“Stop!” He roars, lifting his palm off his face. His eyelids are still fused shut, his face is crimson all the way to the tip of his ears and he’s breathing loudly.

The ferocity of his voice makes her step back.

(She can count the number of times Mike’s raised his voice at her to _that_ level on one hand. The last time was when she told him about the affair.)

A momentary silence spreads through the restaurant because he was _that_ loud. In the brief expanse of which, the only other sounds audible to Rachel are a hushed slurping, a light hum and a lip smack.

She presumes it’s from outside the booth.

In seconds, his face straightens again, his hand disappears. He slips down on his seat, like he’s reaching for something under the table. He breathes roughly, in and out a couple of times, looking up at the skylight, mumbling something that sounds like. “Not you.”

The next second, his eyes widen, his chin drops and he gasps. The second after that he directs his red face to the garçon. “I mean – not you.” He says, quickly.  He swallows hard, beard bobbing with his throat and then looks at her.  “Rachel.” Mike croaks. “D-d-d-did you want something?”

“I uh…” She exhales, confused. “You look like you need help.”

Mike makes a mocking noise, and a huge grin breaks out on his face and the colour quickly fades to normal. He looks down at his lap, shaking his head. “Boy, do I!” He chuckles.

“Are you here alone?”

“Nope.” He says with a lazy, unperturbed grin. “Baker’s here.”

Rachel blinks. “Oh?”

In the same second, his face relaxes and it seems like he’s able to breath normally, again.

She glances at the garcon and it’s apparent that he’s aware of Mike’s absentee dinner companion. Mike leans forward and skates both palms on the table like he’s testing the surface, smiling cautiously.

“I’m –uh - I’m waiting on her to finish.” Mike says, looking into the space between her and the garçon .

“I didn’t see her come w-...” Rachel starts to say.

“Oh-ho-ho!” He begins chortling, the corners of his mouth reach his ear and his eyes disappear under the apples of his cheeks. “ _Believe_ me! I will make sure she comes, even if it is the last thing I do – _ffffuuuuck_!” He growls and stoops, slamming his forehead on the edge of the table.

“Mike!” Rachel cries, worried.

“Sir?” The garcon steps forward.

Mike jerks up with the same speed with which he sank down with a completely straight face.

“Did she go to the restroom?” Rachel speaks without thinking.

He blinks rapidly and brightens as though the idea seemed like a good one.

“Yeah, yeah.” He grins. “Let’s go with that.”

“Mike!”

“What?”

“What is wrong with you?”

“I’m waiting on her to – uh - emerge.” He says to Rachel in a slow, calm voice, between shallow breaths and then he gasps, throwing his head back and wiping a fresh bout of sweat from his face.

“Emerge?”

“Yep.” He looks pleased with his answer. He looks at the garçon with glassy eyes. “M-Maybe you want to check on her wine – I think she’s going to need it when she’s done.”

The garçon looks upset and freaked out, but scurries off.

“Done with what?” Rachel asks.

Mike shifts in his seat. He lets out a scoffing snigger. “I don’t know. Her hair is – _was_ a mess the last time I saw her.”

Rachel frowns. “Are you two here alone?”

“Yep.” He answers, confidently.

“Here?” Rachel finds it a little dubious. “This is the ‘proposal table’, you know that.”

“Well um–” He starts wiggling in his seat, his face returning to a shade of pink. “I’m sort of keeping a promise to Baker.”

“A promise?” Rachel echoes.

“Y’know the tradition, right?” He answers readily and seems just about as frank as he can with that pink puffy face. “When it looks like a pitcher's throwin' a no hitter, no one talks to them until the game is done, y’know? No one –” he makes airquotes, “ _says the words_?”

“Yes?”

“Well – Baker _still_ thinks it’s superstition.” Mike widens his eyes and drops one of his hands into his lap. The table cloth shifts like he’s sliding it down his thigh. “Would you believe it? You remember that last game her first season, right? She said the words back then. To me. Out on the mound at the bottom of the eighth. What happened then, ha? She fielded that bunt and almost blew her elbow! I keep telling her. You don’t tempt fate. But will she listen?” He looks down at his lap and drawls out emphatically. “Nooo!” He looks up at Rachel and continues. “Does it matter that I’m her captain? Noooo!”

He lets out a suffering sigh and stretches like he’s widening his hips and scooting downwards. His shoulder moves like he’s rubbing his knee.

“I tell you Rachel.” He grimaces. “That girl - she’s a chatterbox!”

Then he strangely grins glances down at his lap and then back up at Rachel.

“Is she?” Rachel frowns.

“Yeahah!” He exclaims hoarsely.

He suddenly relaxes. His voice returns to normal. He pulls his hand out and rests it on the table,

“So, last game of the World Series,” Mike narrates. “ _Princess_ Baker is throwing a no-hitter, right? And her royal highness, just wants to yap and yap and _yap_ about it.”  He snorts and shakes his head. “I mean, you should’ve seen the dugout, Rachel.” He says. “The  boys’re all huddled to one side moving away from her, like she was carryin’ the goddamn plague. And she _still_ wouldn’t stop talking!”

(Rachel saw it. The dugout camera caught the whole thing; the snapshot became a meme and the video redefined the term going viral.)

Mike’s voice changes to a reprimand, he looks down with an angry grimace. “She kept, tryin’ to say _the_ forbidden words!” He says. He lifts face up to Rachel and snorts triumphantly. “ _Tsk_! Like we’d let her!”

It seems like whatever was affecting him has subsided. He scrabbles for the glass of water and glugs it down in one go, letting out a relieved sigh.

He grins at Rachel – but Rachel doesn’t feel like she’s the intended subject of his smile.

“Take it from me. Ginny Baker is a closeted narcissist!” He announces. “Y’know, she goes on and on about the scarcity of peace’n’quiet in her life ‘n what not? I'm tellin' ya' Rachel, the truth is, it drives her crazy when people ignore her. She is a– _ggaaaahJESUS!_ ” He whips his head to the side. His face twitches with spasms of agony again.

“Mike!” Rachel steps forward again.

He puts a hand out to stop her, gasping hard to recuperate but still talking. “No I’m fine! Ye- _Fuck_! Dammit!” He pants, thrashing his head, as though he’s feeling dizzy.

“S-s-so.” He swallows and squeezes his eyes, like he’s struggling to do everything: think, breathe, talk.

“I promised her that I would treat her to _the_ best food in LA if she would shut up.” He opens his eyes, huffing out the words. “And when it’s food,” he shrugs, “Baker’ll just about agree to anything.” He widens his yes. “So, she shut up. And guess what?” He adds sarcastically, rapping the table with his knuckles at every sentence. “She threw a no hitter. We won.”

His face seizes, eyes widen, he drops his head and groans – his upper body lurches like he’s going to hurl. Then abruptly,  his head snaps up, his agonizing grimace changes to a silly smirk. Then he moans. Then he chuckles. And, finally he sighs loudly.

And Rachel wonders if he’s having a stroke. She looks down at the bottom hem of the table cloth that’s skirting the floor, pondering a 911 call.

“Wasn’t it a beautiful game, though?” He gasps, softly.

When she looks up at Mike, he’s leaning back with a loopy smile with a faraway look of a childlike awe.

“It was.” Rachel agrees, despite her confusion.

He tips his chin and his eyes drop down. Even then, he can’t hide the affection in his smile or his voice from Rachel.

“She threw quite the game, didn’t she?” Mike commends. “Hands down, the best pitcher I’ve worked with, I mean that.” He shakes his head happily. “I’m so proud of her!”

When he lifts his eyes, he beams at Rachel with the same expression he carried at their wedding; the one he gave her while she walked down the aisle. A look of admiration - full of heart, full of hope, full of joy…full of love.

Except, it’s not for her.

Nonetheless, Rachel smiles.

And then his face twists again. “Ah fuck!” He mutters, slapping his palm across his face. “She’s trying to kill me.”

“Ginny? Why?”

Mike whimpers and starts shifting in his seat.

“Mike?” Rachel prods.

He snaps his head up. He blinks at her as though he’d forgotten her presence.

“So…” Rachel says, warily. “You’re buying her dinner at the ‘proposal table’?”

His face goes blank. “Er…yeah. Sure.” He sounds just as clueless. “ _Ginsanity’s_ gone apeshit or haven’t you noticed? This place has got the uh - best service and the most privacy.”

It’s true that Ginny’s popularity after the second World Series win had made it impossible for her to breathe without being photographed. So, it would be the logical answer. But, it seems like Mike had to fumble around to come up with that explanation.

The garçon comes in with a huge glass of whisky filled to the brim and the wine. He looks disapprovingly at Rachel – and Rachel gets why. Part of his duties as the exclusive server to the table required for him to cordon the guest’s privacy.

And Rachel is an intruder.

“Miss Baker isn’t back yet, sir?” He asks Mike.

Mike lifts his wrist and checks his watch. Rachel finds his actions tad theatrical. “I wonder what’s keeping her.” Mike says, dramatically. “Would you send someone to check the – uh – uh -?”

“Ladies room?” Rachel prompts.

“Yep.” Mike grunts, waving his index finger around. “That.”

He starts heaving out lungfulls, and Rachel can’t be sure from his actions but it appears as though he’s squirming from the waist down again.

The garçon notices it too. “Sir, are you sure, you're okay?” He asks.

Mike winces and inclines on the backrest and sinks deeper. “Yeah, buddy, I’m about one stroke away from nirvana.” Mike stutters hurriedly.

“You look like you’re in pain.” Rachel says, narrowing her eyes.

“I think I’m dying.” Mike’s retorts between labored, helpless laughs. His face deadpans like he’s stopped caring. The grimacing becomes more frequent. “Maybe it’s salmonella.”

“Salmonella?” Rachel repeats, incredulous.

"We maintain stringent hygiene ..." The garçon sputters like he's insulted.

“Or maybe my pitcher’s trying to kill me.” Mike chuffs out with a low growl. He shakes his head and looks at Rachel innocently. “Hey! Y’think maybe she _gave_ me salmonella on purpose? To kill me – woah!” He abruptly shuts his eyes and his voice changes to a simper. “Woah, woah, woah! I didn’t mean that! I didn’t mean that!” He sputters desperately.

“Why would she -?” Rachel prods.

“Jesus! Fuck, Rachel!” Mike snaps. He huffs exasperatedly, looking at her directly. He looks pointedly annoyed. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

The garçon gives Rachel an inquiring lift of his eyebrow as an added emphasis.

“I’ll – check the ladies room, for you.” She says, turning around. “When I find Ginny I’ll -”

Mike cuts her off with a hiss. “Y-Y -Yeah, be - be sure to tell her she’s in trouble! Big. Fucking. Trouble!”

His body tenses and his hands grab the edge of the table, his spine rolls back, a savage grimace appears and he slams the back of his head on the curved wooden back panel of the booth –

And then a stupid grin stretches his beard.

And Rachel knows _that_ face.

“Ma’am?” The clueless garcon urges her to move.

She glances back as she’s directed out, catches a glimpse of Mike shoving his fist into his mouth, that stupid grin still plastered on his face.

Rachel follows the server down the spiral steps but slows her steps deliberately, pressing her ear to the panel as she reaches the middle step.

“Oh fuck!” Mike whispers raggedly. “ _Shit_! Dammit Gin!”

And she knows where those muffled sounds were coming from.

She hears that distinct inhale she’s been hearing all along. The inaudible suck, pop and smack, a parched moan that is so faint that Rachel hears it only because she’s listening for it.

A supressed groan that belongs to her ex-husband resonates behind the panel.

There’s a lull.

It’s followed by a fit of husky giggles and shuffling sounds. There’s a little “Ow! My head!”, a bumping sound, the rattle of the table, gruff grunts from Mike and lumbering sounds of the table being moved around.

She spins around in her spot on the middle step. The curved pane of the glass window in her view provides a subtle reflection. Rachel can’t discern much from the vague image but there is no doubt that a figure that has magically materialised beside an audibly hyperventilating Mike.

“Not bad, Old Man.” Comes the inimitable husky voice of Ginny Baker. “For a minute there, I thought you were gonna keel over and die on me.”

Her voice is dense and gravelly – like something’s been caught in her throat.

And Rachel knows what.

Mike’s reply is interrupted with his chuckles and weighty gasps. “Drink your damn wine, Rookie. I am gonna teach you some proper table manners when we get home.”

**Author's Note:**

> \-----> next POV is Mike or Ginny.


End file.
